


Friends in Low Places

by natalia_alianovna



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: bass plays guitar, charloe if you squint but it doesn't have to be, just cute things, some country music involved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:55:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalia_alianovna/pseuds/natalia_alianovna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been seventeen years, but Bass still remembers how to play a guitar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends in Low Places

**Chicago, IL 2011**

“I’ve got friends, in low places…” The small voice mingled in with the mellow country tune, and Bass’ eyebrows jumped up as he turned the corner and found Charlotte, in pink pajamas, belting out the old Garth Brooks song to the sound of the radio. The song was just ending, and when it did, Bass slowly applauded. She turned; eyes wide at being caught, and then smiled and bowed without missing a beat.

“That was very good, Charlotte, where’d you learn that song?” Bass couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.

“Mommy plays it.” She smiled back. Of course, Bass thought, Rachel was from Texas. Country music was like breathing to her, no matter how much Ben complained about it. Charlotte’s face fell, however, when the radio transitioned to commercials. That gave Bass an idea. He shut the radio off, disappeared into the guest room he was staying in, and returned with an acoustic guitar. Charlotte’s eyes lit up, and she made room for him on the couch as he sat down. Bass plucked out a few chords to warm up his hands.

“I can play it, but you’ll have to help me sing, Charlotte, I’m not very good.” Bass played the opening riff, Charlotte watching his hands with wonder. When she was older, Bass thought he might teach her how to play. He sang the first couple of lines, his voice mellow and smoother than even he expected. Usually he never sang, not in front of others, but Charlotte was different. Her expectant blue eyes disarmed him in the same way that allowed him to sing for his sisters, before. He paused, teasing her, “You promised you’d sing.”

“I know! I was listening. I’ll sing this time.” Bass smiled, continuing and crooning the chorus in a duet.

“Is someone killing a cat?” Miles rounded the corner, eyebrows raised at the sight. “Oh, it’s just you, Bass.”

Bass shot him a look, and Charlotte squeaked out a giggle, trying to hide it behind her hand. But then Bass looked at her, and burst out laughing as well.

* * *

**Southern Plains Nation, 2028**

There was an old acoustic guitar in the attic. Whoever had lived here last hadn’t been gone too long, the strings weren’t rusted out yet and Bass could probably tune it up. He brought it back downstairs, after their little group had settled in and gone their separate ways for the night. He knew he wouldn’t sleep; he didn’t do that very often anymore, so why not fiddle with the old instrument.

He was slowly tuning each string, careful not to stretch them too quickly. It was a long process, but Bass didn’t mind. This was one thing that connected him to the man he once was—the person he used to be, before the Militia, before the Blackout. When it was just Bass and Miles in a basement, messing around on guitars and talking about how they’d get a band together with Scotty from down the street. Even if it was just for a few minutes, it was like old times.

He was so absorbed in this thought that he didn’t even hear her coming. He’d begun to pluck a few notes, the strings giving his no longer calloused fingertips a slight burn. Charlie had snuck into the room, watched him from the doorway, and slowly made her way to the chair across from him. She watched him in silence, giving him only a blank stare when he finally did register her presence.

Anyone else in this house would question him—“Where’d that come from? What are you doing messing around with it?” or Miles, with his classic, “What the hell, Bass?”—But not her.

“What song is that?” She was quiet, curious.

“A really old one.” Bass tilted his head to the side, a flicker of memory stirring in the corner of his mind as he played a familiar riff. A little girl in pink with an old radio. “You might remember it.” Charlie looked confused by that, and he just gave her a slightly bitter smile in return. Well, she might remember the words.

“Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots,” Bass began quietly, his voice rougher than it was all those years ago. Cracked and worn. Charlie perked up at the verse, and he swore he saw a light of recognition in her eyes. She was still in there, the little girl who remembered the world with electricity, who kept an iPod in a tin box long after it stopped working. Just after the verse ended, he paused.

“Come on, Charlotte, you know the words.” She looked at him like he was crazy, but when he started singing the chorus she fumbled a few words and then began singing right along with him. It surprised them both, and her continued success gave them both the confidence to sing louder. By the third verse, they were almost boisterous, definitely smiling, and almost dissolved into laughter three times.

He watched her, the way the candlelight danced over her curls and how her bright blue eyes sparked with mirth. Maybe it wasn’t too late, he thought, to teach her how to play.

They were laughing too hard to hear Miles walk in. “What the _hell_ , Bass.”


End file.
